Summer on Blossom Street

  “Perhaps it is to you. However, to me, it’s vital. If I’m Ellen’s biological father, I should at least have the opportunity to meet my own daughter.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Anne Marie said, refusing to bend.

  “I never knew Candy was pregnant,” he told her again. “I might’ve been a lot of things over the years, but at no time would I have abandoned my own flesh and blood.”

  “That’s very noble of you, Mr. Carlsen, but as I said, it’s too late. I’m sure there’s something in the AA rules that will help you sort it all out. My advice is to let go of this. Ellen’s happy. She has a good life with me.”

  “Not with your husband?” he pressed.

  “My husband…”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed and she could tell he already knew she was widowed. His earlier remarks had been a bluff of his own. Continuing the pretense would be senseless.

  “I’m Ellen’s family now,” Anne Marie said, sidestepping the question. She was finished with this conversation. “I believe it’s time you left, Mr. Carlsen, otherwise I’ll have to call the authorities.”

  Tim slowly stood. “I didn’t want to get an attorney involved, but I will if I have to.”

  “You do that.”

  Tim waited a moment, as if undecided what to do next. After several seconds, he said, “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Arms folded, Anne Marie nodded abruptly.

  Tim walked out of the office, and Anne Marie sat down again, so shaken that she started to tremble.

  A few minutes later, Teresa stepped into the office. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  Anne Marie managed a wobbly smile. “Not really…”

  “Oh?” Teresa watched her carefully. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Anne Marie braced her elbows on the desk and covered her eyes. “I’m not sure…. I need time to think.”

  “If I can help in any way, just let me know,” Teresa urged.

  Anne Marie murmured a thank-you. It would take a while to figure out what to do about this difficult conversation—including the fact that Tim had threatened legal action. Fine, she’d fight him with every resource she possessed. First, however, she needed to find out what her own rights were.

  Her hand shook as she flipped through the Rolodex on the corner of her desk until she came to Evelyn Boyle’s name. Evelyn, as a social worker, knew adoption law. Evelyn would be able to tell Anne Marie her rights.

  Her heart felt as though it might implode. She’d already lost her husband, becoming a widow at the age of thirty-eight. Then life had taken a wonderful and unexpected turn and brought her Ellen. Anne Marie wasn’t going to give the child up. Not for anyone.

  CHAPTER 9

  We don’t knit to make things. There are cheaper, faster and easier ways to obtain a sweater than to knit it. We knit to make ourselves happy. We are in charge of getting the most joy out of our yarn and stitches.

  —Annie Modesitt, author of Confessions of a Knitting Heretic and Knit with Courage, Live with Hope. www.anniemodesitt.com

  Lydia Goetz

  Tuesday evening my stomach was in knots as I pulled into the driveway after work. Casey had been with us for almost a week. Before I left the shop, I’d gotten no less than three phone calls from Cody and had talked with Brad an equal number of times. Each and every one of those calls had been about Casey. The girl had created a complete upheaval in our peaceful family life. As Evelyn had said, there were a few adjustment problems. She’d also predicted that the kids would accept each other in a day or two; it hadn’t happened. Brad felt inadequate to deal with the conflict between Cody and Casey on his own. He seemed to think I’d handle it better, but I wasn’t really sure what to do, either.

  “I’m home,” I called as I entered the kitchen through the door that led from the garage. I realized an announcement had been unnecessary. Both Cody and Brad were waiting for me. The relief on their faces was comical and they released a collective sigh at my arrival.

  I kissed my husband on the cheek. As he usually did, Brad had started dinner—chicken and Spanish rice. Casey sat at the kitchen table with her head bent over one of my cookbooks, open to the section on baking. I found that interesting but knew better than to comment.

  Cody scowled at her from the other side of the room. “I need to talk to you,” he said, then added “privately” in a whisper.

  “Okay,” I agreed. I went over and hugged him, but he remained stiff and angry.

  It took me a moment to divest myself of my purse and bag and to change shoes. “How was school?” I asked Casey, coming back into the kitchen.

  She shrugged.

  “What can I get you?” I decided to ask a question that required an actual response.

  “I don’t need anything.” The words, as well as her body language, were defiant.

  “Okay, but let me know if you do.”

  “Can I talk to you and Dad now?” Cody asked.

  “Okay by me,” Brad told him. He turned down the burner under the pan of rice. The chicken was in the oven, and it would be about half an hour before the evening meal was ready.

  “Would you excuse us for a few minutes?” I asked Casey.

  Once again she didn’t bother to respond. Brad and I left the kitchen. Cody led us into his bedroom with Chase a step or two behind. He waited until we were inside, then firmly closed the door. Brad and I sat next to each other on Cody’s sloppily made bed and my husband reached for my hand.

  Before Brad could even ask what this was all about, Cody whirled around, frowning at us. “I don’t like her.”

  “Cody…”

  “She’s rude and mean and she said I’m spoiled and called me a baby—right to my face!”

  “Cody—” Brad tried again, but our son was in no mood to be reasonable.

  “The three of us talked about adopting, remember?” Cody asked. “And I said okay, and you said you’d listen to what I wanted.”

  “Of course we’ll listen! But Casey will only be with us a couple more days—at the most,” I reminded him. It wasn’t as though the girl was about to become part of our family.

  “She was supposed to stay two nights and now she’s here for a whole week.” Cody’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Seeing that you let her stay longer than you said, I have a list of demands.”

  “A list?” I repeated.

  “Demands?” Brad arched his eyebrows.

  “Go ahead and read us your list,” I said. I felt we owed Cody that much. He was right; the situation had changed without warning and without real discussion. Granted, he was nine years old; he wouldn’t be making decisions for the family. But this did affect him and we needed to acknowledge his feelings—and accommodate them where we could.

  The fact that Cody had actually been thinking about the possibility of adoption pleased me. I wanted open communication among all of us, especially when it came to something as important as bringing a baby into our family.

  “Okay, I will.” Cody marched to the end of his bed, slipped his hand under the mattress and took out a folded piece of paper. Chase hovered near the door, watching him.

  Brad and I exchanged a look of surprise and made an effort to hide our amusement. Apparently Cody was upset enough to reveal his secret hiding place without even realizing it.

  Chase settled on the braided rug beside the bed and rested his chin on his paws as his dark eyes followed Cody. He seemed a little uneasy, no doubt because he was so sensitive to our son’s moods.

  Standing directly in front of us, Cody unfolded the single sheet of paper, then cleared his throat. “Demand number one. If you’re going to adopt another kid, I want a brother, not a sister.”

  Brad sighed. “We won’t necessarily have a say in the matter, Cody. It would be the same as if Lydia were to get pregnant. We wouldn’t know until much later if it was a boy or a girl.”

  “I want a brother,” Cody insisted.

  “We’ll do our best to get you a brother,” I said. r />
  “What else is on your, uh, list of demands?” Brad asked in a serious voice.

  “I get to be the oldest kid in the family.” He looked directly at us, his mouth a straight, angry line. “I was here first, right? If you bring in some other kid, then that kid can’t be the boss of me.”

  “Sounds fair,” Brad assured our son. I nodded.

  He seemed shocked by our agreement. “You promise?”

  “I can’t make it a real promise,” Brad said, “because we won’t know the age until we decide on the child our family would like to adopt. But we’re asking for a baby, so it’s probably not an issue.”

  Cody seemed somewhat mollified.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Cody looked at us again and his face tightened with determination. “I’m not giving in on this,” he said, sounding as though he was engaged in some high-level diplomatic negotiation. Well, I guess from his point of view, he was. “And if you don’t say yes, then I don’t want anything to do with our family getting another kid.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Brad said.

  “I want full approval.” He spoke with such fervor his voice trembled. “I get to say which kid we adopt. If I don’t like ’em, they can’t live here.”

  “Like your dad said, we’re hoping for a baby, so I think that should meet your demand. We’ll request a boy…although it might take a while.” I was discouraged by how long the list of potential parents already was.

  Mildly appeased, Cody glanced down at the dog. “Chase gets approval, too.”

  I almost started to giggle, but Brad frowned. “Son, listen, I know you’re upset because Casey—”

  “I just want to make sure you aren’t going to adopt her,” he cried.

  “No,” Brad said evenly. “As Lydia’s explained, Casey’s stay with us is temporary.”

  I heard a noise outside the door and I suspected Casey had been standing on the other side, listening to our conversation. When I returned to the kitchen, however, she was sitting at the table, exactly as we’d left her.

  I prepared the salad and asked Casey to clear the table so we could set it for dinner. Silently she removed the cookbook, returning it to the shelf. I wondered how she was doing in her math class, but she never volunteered any information and evaded my questions. She hadn’t asked for help, so I assumed all was well. Casey took the plates down from the cupboard and added glasses and silverware. Although I tried to make conversation, she remained uncommunicative, even stoic.

  “Casey,” I said gently. I placed my hand on her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. She shrugged it off as if she found my touch repulsive. I forged ahead, feeling I needed to say something just in case she’d heard part of our conversation with Cody. “I know being here is uncomfortable for you and I apologize. I feel we’ve been exceedingly rude. You are most welcome in our home.”

  She snickered. “Yeah, right.”

  She looked at me and for an instant, for the briefest flicker of time, I saw pain in her eyes. It was quickly gone, replaced by anger and defiance.

  Dinner was a miserable affair. Casey didn’t utter a single word, nor did she bother to eat more than a couple of bites. Cody didn’t do much better. Although Spanish rice was one of his favorites, his plate was practically untouched. A war of wills seemed to be taking place between Cody and Casey and they glared openly at each other across the table.

  Brad and I made several attempts to find a safe topic of conversation, but apparently there was none. Neither child responded to our comments about movies or my cat’s clever antics or anything else, and by the time they left the table, I felt exhausted.

  As soon as they were excused, both kids disappeared into their bedrooms. Brad sighed and I shook my head, hardly knowing what to say.

  “That was an unqualified disaster,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  I could only agree.

  “Is there any chance Evelyn could find another foster home for Casey?” he asked.

  “I…don’t know. I suppose I can call her.” I hated the thought, but one more meal like this and we’d be at each other’s throats.

  Brad looked as discouraged as I did. “I guess we should let her stay until the end of the week.”

  We’d briefly discussed keeping her until classes were finished, but that was out of the question now. The current situation wasn’t working. I’d had no idea that two children could take such an immediate and uncompromising dislike to each other.

  Cody, I could understand. Casey had been thrust upon him without warning. If there’d been time to talk to him beforehand, I was sure he would’ve welcomed—or at least accepted—her. And I suppose Casey’s attitude sprang from a natural defensiveness, given her background.

  Cody was in bed by nine and while Brad went in to say goodnight and hear his prayers, I decided to check on Casey. I hadn’t heard a peep out of her since she’d gone into her room and closed the door.

  I knocked quietly, waited a moment and when there was no response, I let myself in. “Casey?” I whispered.

  I could see that she was already in bed, facing the wall. Either she was asleep or pretending to be; I assumed it was the latter. Coming all the way into the room, I bent over and laid my hand lightly on her back.

  She jerked away from me. I stood there for several minutes, wondering what I should say. A dozen possible remarks swirled around in my head. I felt terribly inadequate to console her, and yet I knew I had to try.

  “How many foster homes have you been in?” I asked her.

  She didn’t answer.

  “More than five?”

  Casey nodded.

  “I want you to meet my friend Alix. She was a foster kid, too.”

  “Who?”

  The question brought me up short. I hadn’t really expected her to respond. “Alix,” I repeated. “She took a knitting class from me soon after I opened my yarn store. She knit a baby blanket in order to satisfy some community service hours she was assigned by the court.” I’d offered to teach Casey, too, but she’d declined, claiming she wasn’t interested.

  I waited for a comment or another question, and when none came, I said, “Alix works at the French Café across the street from me now.”

  Silence.

  Apparently that one-word question a few minutes earlier was all the response I was going to get. “You’ll be with a new family soon and you can settle in there.”

  Again nothing.

  “Remember, if you want to learn to knit, I’ll be happy to teach you.”

  Casey scrambled closer to the wall as if the very idea of me teaching her anything disgusted her. After a few more minutes, I tiptoed out of the room, feeling frustrated and depressed.

  Brad met me in the hallway outside the bedrooms. “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Badly. What about Cody?”

  “He wants her gone.”

  I nodded. “I feel terrible for her,” I said. “I just wish there was something I could say or do that would help. She’s upset about being removed from her last foster home and the fact that she has to be with us.” The home where she’d been earlier had been closed by the state because of some code violations. Evelyn hadn’t provided more than the scantiest details. I didn’t know what the circumstances had been, and I couldn’t ask Casey.

  “I don’t think she’s a bad kid,” Brad murmured as he headed for our bedroom. “Unfortunately, she just isn’t a good fit for us.”

  “It’s only a couple more days,” I reminded him, not for the first time.

  While Brad showered, I slipped into my nightclothes and climbed into bed. I’d been looking forward to teaching Casey to knit. I suppose it was naive of me to think I could initiate some sort of communication with her through knitting. I’d seen it work so well with others that I’d been hopeful, despite her unambiguous refusal.

  I picked up the book I was reading—a biography of C. S. Lewis—which I thought was laudably ambitious. I generally read every night before I
fall asleep; Brad does, too. I find it comforting to lie beside my husband, each of us with a book in our hands. I see it as a period of calm and intimacy, and as the perfect metaphor—together, yet individual—for our marriage.

  It wasn’t long before Brad joined me, his hair still wet from the shower. I smiled at him and began to speak, then paused when I heard a noise.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked in a low voice.

  He glanced up from his book. “Hear what?”

  I listened hard, then shook my head.

  A moment later I heard it again. “Brad?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I wasn’t so sure and was just about to go and investigate when Chase started to bark.

  “There’s someone in the house,” I said in a hoarse whisper, trying to hide my panic. There’d been a rash of home invasions in the news lately and an intruder was the first thought that came to me.

  “I locked all the doors,” Brad said.

  “I know,” I told him, but he was already out of bed, reaching for his pants. “Stay here,” he instructed me.

  “Should I call 9-1-1?” I asked, surprised by how tightly my throat muscles had constricted.

  “Not yet.” He creaked open our bedroom door and turned on the hallway light.

  Unable to remain passively behind, I followed him and quickly discovered the same thing he had. Casey’s bedroom door was open.

  “Casey!”

  Brad called her name, hurrying down the narrow hallway. I rounded the corner into the foyer and saw that my husband had taken hold of the girl’s arm, his face flushed with anger. “I caught her walking out the front door,” he said accusingly.

  “Casey?” I said. “Were you running away?”

  She gazed down at the living room carpet. “You don’t want me here and I don’t want to be here.”

  “Where would you go?”

  She looked up at me then, her eyes flashing with anger. “What do you care?”

  “We do,” I insisted, stretching out one arm but careful not to touch her. “Running away never solved anything. Listen, we’re all going to try harder. It would help if you gave us a chance, too, you know.”